


Failed Retreat

by Tytonidae413



Series: A Losing Battle [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Episode: s03e02 The Sign of Three, Love Confessions, M/M, Pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-02
Updated: 2015-03-02
Packaged: 2018-03-15 22:32:43
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,424
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3464495
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tytonidae413/pseuds/Tytonidae413
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock realizes his feelings for John weeks before the wedding, which changes everything.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Failed Retreat

**Author's Note:**

> Heavily inspired by [this gifset](http://queerdraco.tumblr.com/post/101724818360) by tumblr user queerdraco, though Sherlock is able to maintain a BIT more tact in this fic. I also read a lot of Johnlock meta, so some of the logical leaps in this fic might make more sense if you're familiar with popular theories surrounding TSoT.
> 
> Not Brit-picked and only unofficially beta'd by a friend. I reserve the right to make minor or major changes, especially since this is part of a WIP series. 
> 
> WARNING: not a very happy ending. (That's for Part 2.)

“I nonetheless promised that I would do my very best to accomplish a task which was – for me – as demanding and difficult as any I had ever contemplated.” _In retrospect, a great understatement_ , Sherlock mused wearily. “Additionally, I thanked him for the trust he’d placed in me and indicated that I was, in some ways, very close to being—” _Floored. Elated. Destroyed and rebuilt._ “—moved by it.”

A brief pause as he forced his thoughts to refocus.

-+-+-

He’d been honored by John’s request to be his best man. Glad of the challenge, even, if a bit daunted by it. Though he’d never thought about John and their companionship in so many words before, he was sure he could manage to write a speech both true and sufficiently _touching_ for John’s romanticism.

-+-+-

“It later transpired that I’d said none of this out loud.”

John let out a sudden huff of laughter, and some of the guests joined him.

Sherlock hesitated, taking a deep breath before clearing his throat and pulling a stack of cue cards from his jacket. He glanced at the top one, already knowing full well what it (and the rest) would say.

Tossing the card aside, he continued flipping through the stack in the hopes that he could buy a moment to properly compose himself for the next bit. He felt the tightness in his throat—a persistent disturbance he’d been rather ineffectively ignoring all day—intensifying.

-+-+-

He’d been surprised how easily the words sprang from his pen. How poetic and dripping with genuine feeling they were. He felt an overwhelming desire to craft a speech that would make John happy, and nothing else mattered in the face of that goal.

-+-+-

He turned his face away from John and Mary for the next part. “I’m afraid, John, that I can’t congratulate you.”

-+-+-

“ _… redeemed only by the warmth and constancy of your friendship,_ ” he’d written, and then been appalled to find his vision blurred by an upwelling of tears. It was the objective, factual truth, though—he was nothing without John Watson, not anymore. He certainly wouldn’t have made it this far without John’s presence in his life, might not have made it back to London at all without the thought of John’s companionship acting as a beacon, directing him home. And wasn’t that the sort of bare sentiment he was supposed to include in this speech? The reasons that made John a worthy best friend, deserving of happiness?

As if a common label like “friend” could even begin to encompass the impact he’d had on Sherlock’s life.

-+-+-

In his peripheral vision, Sherlock could see John and Mary both swivel their heads to stare at him in confusion. As planned, of course. Each word of his speech was meticulously crafted to elicit a response in his audience. The misdirection would aid in hammering his next point home.

-+-+-

“… _Mary Elizabeth Watson and John Hamish Watson,_ ” he’d written, then froze, pen nib still resting on the full stop.

“Hamish,” he whispered aloud, unconscious of the slow spread of ink bleeding into the paper.

“ _Hamish_ ,” he repeated, louder, rising to his feet.

The nurse. John’s middle name. The _invitations_! One person in both groups, then, meaning—The Mayfly Man!

Oh, but then—the wedding! The killer was going to be _at John’s wedding_.

The pieces clicked into place rapidly, and Sherlock felt the familiar surge of adrenaline he associated with the imminent conclusion of a case. The reclusive Major—of _course_! And a very short list of suspects that he was confident would be narrowed down by the time the guests were even seated for the ceremony.

Sherlock glanced down at the nearly-finished speech, the dark blot of ink at the end of the final sentence. The name staring back at him: John Hamish Watson. _Incredible,_ he mused. _Even halfway across London, his mere existence allows me to solve the unsolvable_.

A feeling like a punch to the abdomen. Another wave of unexpected deductions, nearly parallel to the first.

John. Secrets. The wedding. Two. A great unsolved mystery.

 _John_.

Oh.

-+-+-

Sherlock remained facing the guests. “All emotions, and in particular love, stand opposed to the pure, cold reason I hold above all things,” he recited. _Categorically false_ , a voice in his head chimed, but he kept to the script he’d planned. “A wedding is, in my considered opinion, nothing short of a celebration of all that is false and specious and irrational and sentimental in this ailing and morally compromised world.”

The disgusted looks of the guests was not surprising, but perhaps a bit more disconcerting than expected. He could understand their outrage, though, given that he no longer believed the words himself.

-+-+-

Sherlock had remained staring at the speech on the desk as if it had burned him. He ran shaky fingers through his curls and let out a shuddering breath.

How could he not have _known_? The clues were neatly lined up in his mind’s eye now, conclusion obvious and inescapable.

 _John is bisexual_.

“There’s always _something_!” he muttered roughly to the skull on the mantel, beginning to pace the room, sensing an echo of something significant and growing increasingly agitated.

The clues had been there all along, but he hadn’t noticed because…

No. No, he _had_ noticed the signs, he realized now. It’s just that he’d been—perhaps subconsciously?—ignoring them.

But why would he have done that?

What should it matter to him that John Watson was capable of finding men attractive? It wasn’t as if…

_“Oh.”_

The third and final epiphany of the night slammed into him with the force of a train.

 _A chemical defect_ , the voice of Mycroft sneered in his mind, disapproval clear.

His pacing accelerated. Shouldn’t this realization fill him with joy and clarity? Shouldn’t he feel refreshed and full of hope?

Why did it instead feel like his chest cavity was collapsing in on itself?

 _Because you’ve already missed your chance,_ whispered a second, more feminine voice.

He’d stopped pacing, lifting his shaking hands to cover his face. _Mary._

-+-+-

Sherlock continued to speak on autopilot, determined not to change a word of what he’d written despite the clamoring chorus of _Wrong!_ in his head. He babbled deliberately rude and inflammatory nonsense that caused a swell of uncomfortable murmuring throughout the room.

He paused for a long moment, taking in the frowning faces of the guests. He still didn’t have the courage to glance at John and Mary. “The point I’m _trying_ to make,” he finally continued, “is that I am the most unpleasant, rude, ignorant and all-round obnoxious arsehole that anyone could possibly have the misfortune to meet.”

-+-+-

John had Mary now. They were getting married in less than a month. Maybe if Sherlock had overcome his own emotional blindness a bit sooner, then—

But no. Even if that were true, even if John was capable of unconditionally forgiving the monstrous things Sherlock had done to him—and Sherlock was no longer certain of any assumptions he’d previously held regarding John Watson—John deserved better than Sherlock could give him.

John craved adrenaline-fueled chases and puzzle solving as much as Sherlock did, but he also needed some measure of stability, safety. Mary could provide those things. Sherlock could not.

Sherlock straightened his posture where he still stood in the middle of his sitting room, his jaw set decisively as he attempted to regain his former poise. Even in the quiet solitude of Baker Street, he refused to let his feelings rule him outwardly.

Nothing had changed. He would solve the case, save the day, give the speech, and get on with his life as John Watson’s best friend. It was selfish, not to mention childish, to think that anything more could come of their current relationship, and he wasn’t so socially obtuse as to overlook how much getting involved with John might hurt Mary. Sherlock liked Mary well enough. She deserved better than his meddling presence, too.

So there was nothing for it. He’d play the part of the unsociable best man, as everyone expected, and he’d do his best to forget that the emotional turmoil of this night had ever happened.

-+-+-

“I am dismissive of the virtuous, unaware of the beautiful…” Realizing belatedly that he was staring over the heads of his audience instead of giving the apologetic looks he’d planned for this portion of the speech, Sherlock blinked hard and finally, with great effort, turned to look at the newlyweds.

“And… uncomprehending in the face of the happy.” His eyes locked with John’s for a fraction of a second before his courage failed him, his eyes skittering over to Mary’s openly curious face instead, before falling to John’s hands on the table. “So if I didn’t understand I was being asked to be best man, it is because I never expected to be anybody’s best _friend_.”

His voice did something strange on the last word, and he could almost feel the atmosphere of the room change. The pressure of dozens of eyes was nearly tangible on the side of his face as he took a deep breath to steady himself. Just a few more lines and this particular battle would be over.

He slowly, agonizingly slowly, returned his gaze to John’s. This part was important, and although he feared his expression giving away too much, he needed John to understand the sincerity of his next words. “Certainly not the best friend of the bravest and kindest and wisest human being I have ever had the good fortune of knowing.”

The room erupted into a chorus of “aww” sounds, but Sherlock barely even registered them, his every sense trained on John’s expressive face, cataloguing every detail of the man’s reaction in a selfish attempt to preserve this moment. The moment before he would have to offer his congratulations for real. The moment he would be forced to acknowledge his defeat. The moment he would, in some ways, have to say goodbye.

“John,” he continued, his voice firmer but still low as he again averted his gaze. “I am a ridiculous man,” he could see John nod out of the corner of his eye, “redeemed only by the warmth and constancy of your friendship.”

He’d written these words before he’d even consciously realized how much John Watson meant to him. How could he have been so clueless?

It must be obvious to everyone here, he realized. But they’d probably known for years. Only he and John had misinterpreted their own feelings, and now Sherlock was the one to suffer for it.

“But,” he pushed on, mechanically, “as I’m apparently your best friend, I—”

A soft touch on his elbow caused him to twitch in alarm.

He glanced at John, whose fingertips remained hovering just inches away, brow scrunched in what was obviously bemused concern.

“I-I’m afraid I…” Sherlock attempted again, noting John’s expression with rising alarm, before realizing all at once what had captured John’s attention.

He reached up before he could stop himself and gracelessly wiped the tears from his face.

Panic flashed across his mind before a more rational string of logic streamed in. _People cry at weddings all the time,_ he scolded viciously. _For all they know I’m simply overcome with joy._

Except John wouldn’t have interrupted him if he’d looked like a proud friend overcome with happiness.

He turned back to John, whose concerned frown was deepening by the second.

Sherlock must look like an absolute _mess_.

“Um.” His feeble attempt to laugh came out strangled. He cleared his throat and hurriedly ad-libbed a conclusion, “As your best friend, I feel I am most qualified to congratulate you and your new wife.” He willed his voice to remain steady, with admirable success. “I wish you both bountiful happiness in your future together.”

He’d barely covered the beginning of the full planned speech. There was so much more he’d intended to say, had genuinely _wanted_ to say, but perhaps it was best if he quit while he was ahead.

The room was deathly silent as Sherlock twisted his face into the closest approximation of a smile he could manage. John had always been one of the few people able to see through his façades, though—having been exposed to Sherlock’s disguises more times than he cared to count—and he continued to watch Sherlock carefully, the emotion on his own face unreadable.

Sherlock awkwardly scooped up his champagne glass. He cleared his throat again, pointedly ignoring the sudden tension that hung over the room like a specter. “Ladies and gentlemen, pray charge your glasses and be upstanding.”

The guests did as directed and he finished the toast almost exactly as planned, his throat burning as he felt the crushing weight of dozens of stares. He probably still looked ill, but at this point he couldn’t bring himself to care. Perhaps some of them would think he simply had a phobia of giving speeches—he’d developed a reputation for being rather antisocial, after all.

With the toast completed, Sherlock waited only long enough to see the guests beginning to chatter amongst themselves before twirling away from the head table in a flash of coattails. He couldn’t remain in this room a second longer, tradition and manners be damned.

Over his shoulder, and despite the murmur of noise from the crowd on the other side of the room, he heard John whisper something to Mary and a chair squeak lightly across the floor. In moments, Sherlock was out the door into an adjoining hallway, but he’d hardly closed it behind himself when John burst through it and caught him roughly by the arm.

Sherlock hissed in a breath involuntarily. “Sorry, I just—”

“Whatever comes out of your mouth next, Sherlock, you’d better not lie to me.”

Sherlock clenched his jaw tightly but didn’t attempt to speak again.

John, realizing that Sherlock had no immediate intention of fleeing, released his arm. “What the hell happened in there?” he asked, his tone much softer than his words. When Sherlock remained silent, refusing to meet his eyes, John blew out a tired breath, “Sherlock, are you all right? I may not have your observational skills, but I know _you_ , and I’ve never seen you look so…”

He trailed off suggestively, and Sherlock shook his head. “I’m sorry,” he repeated. “I’m—” he hesitated before he could finish the reflexive response. John had asked him not to lie, and it was fairly obvious that he was not “fine”. “I’m just a bit… emotional,” he settled with.

He could feel John’s continued stare. “That seems a bit of an understatement.”

Sherlock took in a deep breath through his nose and forced his gaze to John’s face. “You know I’m bad at this sort of thing,” he said, trying for casual and only managing exhausted. “Sentiment. Tradition. _People_.” He crooked a tiny lopsided smile at that. John didn’t return it, though his posture seemed to soften. “I got a bit overwhelmed is all.” Still none of this was a lie. “I didn’t mean to make a spectacle of myself, John, and I really do wish for your and Mary’s happiness.”

He hadn’t meant for that last part to sound so final, so like a goodbye. John, unusually perceptive today, picked up on it, too. “Sherlock.” His voice sounded oddly strained. “What is this really about?”

They held each other’s gazes for a long moment. Sherlock noticed John’s left hand clench and unclench, and he closed his eyes, a humorless smile creeping onto his face. “Pointless, now.” He could hear John’s quiet intake of breath, as if that was the last answer he’d expected to hear. “Congratulations again, John. I’m sorry I can’t stick around—I know you wanted me to play the song in person.” At the mention of the waltz he’d composed, he was flooded with memories of John’s hesitant dance steps and warm hands in Sherlock’s. He screwed his eyes tighter. “I’ll… talk to you later.”

For the second time this afternoon, a gentle hand on his elbow startled him out of his own head.

John was standing very close. “Don’t do this, Sherlock. I think I…” he visibly hesitated. “If you have something to say, please just say it.” Sherlock watched as John anxiously swallowed. “I… I lived the two longest years of my life wishing we’d just bloody _talked_ more.” It seemed to take an immense effort to get the words out. “About things like this. _Important_ things,” he added emphatically, his hand shaking slightly where he still clutched Sherlock’s arm.

Sherlock let out a shuddering breath he didn’t realize he’d been holding, running his free hand down his face in resignation. If he gave in now, there was no going back. He summoned the will to raise one last objection. “John, I know you think having this talk is going to fix something, that honesty is somehow always the preferable—”

“ _NO._ ”

Sherlock’s teeth clicked as he shut his mouth.

John yanked harshly on Sherlock’s sleeve, his eyes flashing dangerously. “Sherlock Holmes, you do not get to decide what truths I do and do not want to hear. Not today. Not _ever_ again.” Sherlock winced under a powerful wave of shame. “If our friendship means anything to you at all,” something faltered in his expression, and Sherlock wondered if he’d imagined the split second of some other emotion shimmering beneath the anger, “you will tell me why the bravest man I know is currently trying to run away from a _wedding reception_ with tears in his eyes and his tail between his goddamned legs.”

“John,” he began.

“I mean it, Sherlock.”

The ferocity of his expression left little room for argument. Sherlock took another deep breath and quickly ran through his options.

He could lie anyway—come up with some other excuse for his distress—though his mind felt so flayed right now that he doubted even he could come up with something plausible enough to convince John.

He could simply refuse to answer at all. John would be angry. _Very_ angry. But he’d made John upset before, hadn’t he? And thus far John had always forgiven him, even when Sherlock had done seemingly unforgivable things. But this… no. He wasn’t sure he’d ever seen John look so viscerally upset, so intense, so…

 _Oh_. John looked _afraid_.

Nearly as afraid as Sherlock himself felt.

He looked down at his arm, where John’s hand still gripped the fabric of Sherlock’s jacket.

This was it, then. Not just a plea for honesty, but an ultimatum. The truth, now, or their unstable relationship might really pass beyond the point of recovery. John’s loyalty was seemingly limitless at times, but he was still human—his trust in Sherlock had survived many trials, but this could finally be the straw that breaks the camel’s back.

That left Sherlock with no choice after all.

“The truth,” he murmured, hand coming up to gently rest on John’s clenched fingers. John’s whole body jerked like he’d been electrified, as if he hadn’t realized that he’d still been touching Sherlock. He released his grip immediately, looking slightly sheepish.

Sherlock searched John’s face one last time, hoping in vain to find some clue, some other way to prevent this conversation. He glanced at the door over John’s shoulder, imagining the crowd of people on the other side, all likely wondering where the groom had run off to in such a hurry. Sherlock could pray for one of those people to burst through that door in the next few seconds and interrupt, but he’d made it clear in his speech just how much stock he put in the reliability of prayer.

“The truth,” he repeated, firmer, mostly to himself.

John waited a moment, then nodded as if to encourage him.

“John, you think my avoiding this conversation is cowardly. You think I’m too ‘brave’ a man to run away. What your assumptions fail to take into account is the fact that I very much _want_ to have this conversation with you.”

John blinked in surprise. “What—”

“I’ve wanted to tell you, wanted to scream it at the top of my lungs, since I realized a few weeks ago.” The words were tumbling out of his mouth now. He kept his eyes on John’s face, feeling more wretched with every word. “It took every ounce of my stubbornness and willpower to keep my mouth shut, to convince myself it didn’t matter, that I could just go on with my life as if nothing had changed, that it would be better for everyone if I left things as they were.”

John looked exceedingly unhappy. Sherlock railed inwardly at his own weakness. This could only end with both of them miserable, and it was his fault.

“You…” he paused long enough to glance over his own shoulder, down the hallway stretching behind him. It was empty. He looked John directly in the eye. “You’re bisexual.” It wasn’t a question.

John staggered backward a half-step, obviously thrown off-balance by the apparent non sequitur. “What,” he choked, then cleared his throat and tried again, his voice odd. “What would that have to do with anything?”

Sherlock observed his reaction, analyzing it with as much detached professionalism as possible. The tells would have been obvious, though, even to someone who wasn’t a genius detective. “It’s true, then.” His eyes fell to his shoes, not remotely happy to have his theory confirmed. Not that it would have made much difference either way.

John let out a harsh sound that might have resembled a laugh if it had held any trace of mirth, “Yes, all right, I’m bi. It’s not a—well, I don’t exactly publicize it, but I don’t...” He huffed in agitation, his left hand shaking visibly. “Sherlock, what in God’s name does that have to do with what happened in there?” He jerked a thumb at the door to the reception hall.

Sherlock shook his head, still staring at the floor. “Nothing. Everything. I don’t know.” He raised his head enough to peer at John through his lashes, brow scrunched as if in pain. “You tell me.”

There was a moment of icy stillness, and then John exhaled savagely as if he’d had the wind knocked out of him. “Oh my god,” he whispered, apparently to himself. “ _Christ_ , Sherlock.”

“I take it you’ve figured it out.” The corner of Sherlock’s mouth twitched unhappily, but John did not look amused.

“You could’ve… You… _Today_?” John managed, his voice high and shaking. “This had to wait until _today_ of all days?”

“I thought I would be content to avoid the issue indefinitely,” Sherlock reminded him, sighing. “Which is, apparently, one more thing I was utterly, spectacularly wrong about.”

John covered his face with his hands and groaned.

“Sorry again for ruining your wedding day.”

“Just. Just stop talking for a minute,” John mumbled around his hands.

After a few seconds, he lowered his arms and, studiously avoiding looking at Sherlock’s face, stared at the door they’d come through just minutes ago. It had felt like an eternity.

They stood in the empty hallway in silence, neither knowing what to say.

Sherlock shifted awkwardly from one foot to another. “I understand that this complicates things immensely,” he finally said, quietly. “I won’t blame you if you don’t want me around.” John whipped around as if he’d been struck, but remained silent. “I had hoped to at least maintain our friendship, but…” he trailed off. Then, his voice barely above a whisper, “I really do mean it, you know. I’m happy for you and Mary. I want you to be happy.”

He realized there were tears on his face again, but he couldn’t muster the strength to wipe them away this time. If anyone was going to see him weep, at least it was only John.

John took an involuntary step toward him, then appeared to pause, swaying slightly. The moment of hesitation passed as quickly as it came, however, and he lurched forward, clenching his fists, and crossed the remaining distance to put a firm hand on Sherlock’s shoulder. Sherlock looked up to meet his eyes.

“Sherlock, you—” John blinked rapidly and cleared his throat, obviously fighting back his own emotion. “I meant what I said, too, back when I asked you to do this for me. You’re my best friend. That… that isn’t going to change, I don’t think, over this. I—I’m sorry, too. I shouldn’t have… ”

“You had every right to demand the truth,” Sherlock interrupted, somewhat bitterly. “You’re right. I’ve lied to you too much already. It’s part of the reason I think things have turned out for the best.”

John examined his facial expression for a long moment, understanding blossoming across his features. He shook his head miserably. “You don’t…” he sighed, unable to finish the thought. “Sherlock, I just need to… to think about things for a while.” He jostled Sherlock’s shoulder reassuringly. “I don’t want to stop being friends any more than you do. Jesus.”

The sound of a food cart’s clattering wheels came from around a corner in the hallway, signaling the need for an end to this conversation.

John sucked in a breath and crushed Sherlock in an abrupt hug. Sherlock gasped, his limbs frozen in shock and confusion.

“Shit,” John muttered into his shoulder. “ _FUCK_. This isn’t how it should have gone.”

Sherlock didn’t allow himself to consider the implications of this outburst.

“I’m sorry, Sherlock,” John breathed, countless emotions warring on his face as he released the taller man. “I’ve got to get back. I’ve been gone for too long already.”

Sherlock nodded. “Mary will be worried.”

John swore again. “We’re not done talking about this. That’s a promise.” Sherlock wasn’t sure if that was more reassuring or terrifying. Then John sighed tiredly. “You go on, then, if you can’t stand to be here any longer.” He said it without a trace of bitterness, and Sherlock could have collapsed with gratitude at his understanding. “I’ll tell them all you got violently sick from the _hors d’oeuvres._ ” He managed a small smile at that, and Sherlock was surprised to find himself returning it.

“I’ll see you later, then,” he said, with more confidence than he felt.

John’s expression became serious again. “Of course. And, Sherlock, if you need to talk, don’t hesitate to call me.”

The implication was clear. He couldn’t truthfully say that John’s worry was unfounded, however, so he simply nodded. “Of course,” he echoed, then couldn’t restrain a smirk. “But I prefer to text.”


End file.
